


Don't Call Me Persephone

by KareliaSweet



Series: Morning-star [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Anal Sex, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bottom Hannibal, Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal is the devil, Hell, Like really violent, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Topping from the Bottom, Violent Sex, Will is Prince of Darkness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:25:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5027437">Morning-star</a>. Will settles into his role as new co-Lord of Hell with Hannibal, and they pay an earthly visit to an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

When they part, it is not for breath, as neither have the need for it any longer.

They take each other in, these new incarnations of their selves, smiles painted wide across them both.

“I am very glad you accepted my offer, Will.”

Hannibal traces a line across his brow fondly.

“Now. To business. Vassago!” he calls, and a great rumbling beat of wings echoes above them.

As if from Heaven itself, though Will knows it could not be possible, an angel descends to meet them. An angel no longer, Will assumes. He is ethereally beautiful, with sharp crystal-blue eyes and shining dark hair. He wears obsidian armour, embedded with intricate swirls and whorls in a tongue not yet familiar to Will’s eyes.

The angel – demon, perhaps – bows deep and the tips of his inky wings brush the floor.

“My Lord,” he intones, his eyes cast down. His voice cannot hide its power but he pitches it low with deference and respect.

Hannibal gestures with his hand for him to rise.

“I have need of an officiant, Vassago.”

Vassago nods. “In what matter, My Lord?”

Hannibal places a hand at Will’s elbow, presenting him gracefully. “This is Will Graham. He has agreed to rule at my side, and proper custom dictates he must be bound to me as such.”

Vassago’s propriety vanishes. He looks over Will with unmasked excitement, a grin splitting his face.

“You are Will Graham!” he smiles with surprising warmth and moves to clasp his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Hannibal speaks very highly of you.”

Will returns the hearty handshake, dizzy and embarrassingly pleased that he has been so well spoken of, even in circles such as these. He turns to Hannibal who is positively beaming.

“They call you Hannibal here?”

“What else would they call me, Will? It is my name.”

“I don’t know, I thought… Lucifer?”

“Lucifer was the previous caretaker, Will. He mostly keeps residence on Earth now, but I’m sure he would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Will swallows hard and shakes his head. “One thing at a time, maybe.”

Vassago takes this all in, watching them with unmasked joy. Will looks him up and down. He looks less like the imposing creature that had landed in front of him and more like an excited grandmother.

“So you’ve asked him to… bind us?”

Hannibal nods. “Technically you are still mortal, Will. In order to make our arrangement permanent, I will need to share my power with you. Vassago is one of the few acolytes of mine I trust to perform this.”

Will frowns. “Don’t you trust them all? You rule them.”

Hannibal smiles darkly. “We are still in Hell, Will. You would be wise to be selective in the people you trust.” He claps a fond hand on Vassago’s back, who barks out a laugh, then ducks his head in deference at such a boisterous outburst. “Shall we begin, my Lord?”

On Hannibal’s nod of assenting the room around them shifts and flickers until they are in the Palermo Chapel, or a very beautiful apparition of it.

Hannibal turns to Will. “Once we are joined, you may feel different. You may not immediately, but you will sense things, with far more clarity than you have before. Though,” he steps in to nose at Will’s curls, “I suppose you always had that power. Are you ready?”

Will closes his eyes at the brief touch and nods against him. They turn to face Vassago, who holds his hands out, palms turned up in benediction. His grin has vanished, replaced with somber concentration on something ancient within and around them. He raises his chin and speaks to Hannibal first.

“Lord of Lies and Prince of the East, Keeper of the Keys to the Many Circles, we greet you.”

Hannibal dips his head, slow and graceful. Vassago moves to regard Will.

“Will Graham, we greet you.”

Will bites his lip to hide the small smile at his complete lack of title, and echoes Hannibal’s greeting.

“Which of your titles do you wish to bestow upon this man?” Vassago asks.

“All, in entirety,” Hannibal responds.

Vassago looks startled for a moment. “ _All_ , my Lord?”

The look that Hannibal gives him could silence a storm.

“All,” Hannibal says, “in equal share.”

The demon bows his head low in apology and continues on.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Hannibal places his palm upon Vassago’s upturned one.

“I hereby share the entirety of my kingdom with Will Graham, as my consort and my equal.”

Vassago extends his free hand toward Will.

“Do you accept this offer?”

Will places his palm on Vassago’s as Hannibal had. It is cold and smooth as marble, and he can feel the power pulse beneath it.

“He will need a title of his own, Hannibal,” Vassago murmurs.

Hannibal contemplates this for a moment.

“Prince of Tartarus. And Keeper of the Hellhounds,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You have Hellhounds?” Will whispers sotto voce, and Hannibal tips the corners of his mouth up slightly.

“The knife?” Vassago asks, and Hannibal produces a curved blade, engraved with the same foreign designs as the demon’s armour. He hands it to Vassago, who gestures for Hannibal to lift his hand, and he draws a broad line down Hannibal’s palm with the blade. He turns to Will, who raises his palm and allows the cut, barely surprised that he feels no pain.

“Prince of Tartarus. Keeper of the Hellhounds,” he proclaims, and Will feels himself instinctually bow in acceptance.

Vassago takes both their bloodied hands and joins them carefully so the lines on their palms align, and Hannibal locks his fingers over Will’s

A rush of air sucks and winds its way around them. Vassago’s wings begin to unfurl, thick and massive, and he begins to speak in an ancient tongue. Potent words, heavy with power and significance, roll over them both, and Will feels his body begin to spark and tremble. Vassago’s voice raises, booming across the halls of the chapel, and his features shift and elongate, becoming less human but no less beautiful. As the words reach a frenzied pitch, Will’s mind begins to curl around an understanding.

_You are joined. It is witnessed. It is eternal._

_May your love strike fear into the hearts of all._

The rumbling echo of his voice ceases, and the shadow of his wings retreat. All that remains is the soft crackling flicker of the candles behind them.

Vassago folds his wings behind him and smiles at them both.

“It is done,” he says, and presses their joined hands within his own. “Do you wish to seal it?”

He leans in conspiratorially, “You know, the human way.”

“Plenty of time for that, Vassago,” Hannibal chides, but he leans in to brush his lips against Will’s. “This will suffice for now.”

The simple brush against his mouth rings electric through Will, and he is filled with an urge to feel more of the same but deeper, harder, longer.

Hannibal releases their hands, clear of blood now, but displaying matching thin lines that mark their union.

“Thank you, Vassago,” he shakes his hand in gratitude, “You are dismissed. Please inform your company that we shall be visiting the realms shortly. And tell them they would be wise to show their new Prince deference and respect.”

Vassago nods and raises his wings.

“Of course. Congratulations, my Lord.” He winks at them both and departs with a great beat of feathers.

Hannibal clasps a hand around Will’s neck, pressing their foreheads together, firm but earnestly loving.

“Do you feel any different, Will?”

Will closes his eyes and stretches his mind experimentally. He feels strong, he feels vibrant, but he can’t say different. He’s always felt this way around Hannibal.

“I’m… not sure.”

“You will surely feel a difference when we tread upon mortal earth again. Our bodies will be much the same but very difficult to harm.”

“That… that makes a lot of sense.” Will laughs, thinking of the numerous scars that had alit Hannibal’s seemingly invincible body. He has a sudden urge to trace them all with his tongue, but there are darker pleasures to be devoured first. Hannibal feels the shudder against him and leans to kiss him again, harder and burning hot with need.

“So,” Will smirks against Hannibal’s mouth, “does this mean we’re married now?”

Hannibal’s eyes spark with delight.

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he says, nudging his nose to Will’s, “is this important to you?”

“Not exactly,” Will admits, his grin rueful and a little embarrassed, “I’m suddenly reminded of Freddie Lounds.”

Hannibal sighs with distate. “I see. ‘Murder Husbands’, wasn’t it?”

Will nods but does not find his lip curl at the moniker any longer.

“I hope you know, Will, that Tattle Crime does not deliver to the Inner Circles of Hell.”

“Shame,” Will replies, “I guess I’ll have to cancel my subscription.”

Hannibal simply shakes his head, a slight laugh despite himself.

“We can do that in person, if you wish. Perhaps we can cancel hers as well.”

Visions of putting a stop to that clever and insolent tongue are appealing, but there is another, fairer serpent whose tongue Will wishes to sever.

“The prospect intrigues, but…” he trails off for a moment, machinations of elegant revenge turning over in his head. He looks up sharp-eyed at Hannibal.

“There _is_ someone I would like to pay a visit to,” he says, deliberately repeating Hannibal’s earlier phrasing.

Hannibal’s eyes spark with low flame. He knows precisely who.

“Of course. Where exactly do you wish to go?”

Will knows he needn’t, but he delights in saying the words anyway.

“Perhaps my _husband_ could take me to the residence of Ms. Bedelia DuMaurier?”

Hannibal steps into him, breaching the little distance that exists between them and replacing it with a kiss.

“My darling, I would be delighted.”

He presses a palm against Will’s forehead, as he had done before when he had shown him such splendor. Will closes his eyes, and when he opens them they are outside Bedelia’s door.

“Would you like to ring the bell, or should I?”

-x-

The gasp of surprise when she finds them at the door is almost comical, and they dispatch her quickly. Removing her leg is remarkably easy with the increased strength Will has been endowed with, and he finds himself realizing how incredibly obvious Hannibal’s powers should have been to him all along. Once the meal is prepared, they dress her in what Hannibal refers to as ‘his favourite dress’, which paints a violent stripe of jealousy through Will. Once she is dressed, with as much decorousness as they can allow, they prop her up in the dining room and wait for her to regain consciousness from the copious sedatives they had pumped her full of.

Will drums his fingers against her marble countertop in barely veiled annoyance, and Hannibal snakes his arms around Will’s waist when he sees the petulance gesture.

“If you wish to wear it, Will, then by all means…”

Will shifts against him, but it is mostly for show.

“I just wish you didn’t have a favourite anything of that woman’s.”

“We’re going to eat her favourite leg, Will. Surely that is enough to assuage your jealousy.”

He turns Will in his arms and his eyes glint gold. “Although I do find your possessiveness enticingly arousing.”

Will glances down and sees an unmistakable outline through Hannibal’s trousers.

“Can we…?” he licks his lips, “in these bodies? What would it be like?”

“Of course we can,” Hannibal replies, shifting and pressing his hips to Will’s, “and with your senses now heightened,” he breathes into Will’s ear, “I believe it would be the greatest sex you will ever experience in your entire existence.”

He turns his head to claim Will’s mouth, and Will’s slight gasp at the suddenness of it eases Hannibal’s tongue between his lips, and they meet with a soft slide, slipping together as their bodies squeeze against each other. Will’s fingers slide through Hannibal’s hair and grasp at his skull, scratching lines down as he bites into their urgent kisses.

“Dinner first,” he murmurs, licking Hannibal’s lower lip and sucking around it. Hannibal exhales a moan, soft and low, and they part reluctantly.

A shiver runs through Will and he feels a light pressure run along his spine.

“She’s awake,” he whispers, and hones his focus more keenly.

“She’s holding an oyster fork under the table.” He turns to Hannibal, “How do I know that?”

“Perhaps the better question is, why wouldn’t you know?” He drops a kiss into the curve of his neck. “There is so much for you to learn, Will.”

Will drinks him in, eager, insatiable.

“Then teach me,” he growls.

They greet her as magnanimous hosts, as though she were an honored guest, and she weren’t being held hostage and missing a limb in her own dining room. Hannibal had found the most expensive bottle of wine that she had kept hidden, even from her own wine cellar, and the singular flare of rage at seeing the bottle being opened in front of her almost seems to outweigh the anger at finding herself a sudden amputee.

Will stands regally at her side and pours her wine in a languid motion. He sets his eyes on hers wipes the neck of the bottle with a napkin, setting it deliberately and carefully back to the table. He knows she is waiting for a moment of calm in which to attack, and he is more than ready to give it to her. He bends to her ear, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s.

“You know,” he says, fully aware that he has no sentence to finish. He does not need one, she plays completely into his hands.

With a quick but unpracticed motion, Bedelia lunges, twisting her body to the side and stabbing the fork into Will’s neck. The room goes completely still, but Hannibal is oddly unmoved. She looks up and is perplexed to see Will merely frown and curl a displeased lip at her. In her mind she had seen the panic bleed from him, the frantic chokes and discordant heaving. She had imagined blood spraying, or at least copiously weeping, angry pleading eyes and gestures to help him. None of this happens. He gives her an insolent look and stands gracefully, oyster fork jutting out of his neck at an odd angle. It bothers him, but it is clearly at best a mild inconvenience.

A trickle of blood leaks slow and sluggish around the tines and Will yanks the fork out with a rough tug. The wound quickly knits itself up into two pinpricks, and Will sucks the blood from the cutlery before returning it to the place setting at Bedelia’s hand.

“I’m not fetching you a new one,” he says, “Eat up.”

She looks up at him with glazed and confused eyes.

“How?” she breathes, and Will shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps, “you don’t get to ask questions after you stab someone.”

He pulls his chair out roughly and sits. Hannibal reaches to wipe the tiny whisper of blood from his neck and licks it gently from his fingers. Will leans into the touch, just slightly, but keeps his eyes on Bedelia.

“Eat,” he commands.

They eat their dinner in a stately silence, Bedelia stabbing softly and petutantly at her oysters. She is angry, but more than that, she is shamed that she was finally beaten in the game she thought she had played so well.

“How long will this play run out for?” she murmurs, “I get quite bored after three acts.”

Hannibal smiles around another succulent mouthful and glances at Will. He cannot savor the meal quite as much, but she does taste delicious, something he would never admit to her.

“Oh, we’re not going to kill you,” Will says jocularly, “not right away.”

He examines her, glacial and poised in her dress, and imagines the various way he can strip her flesh to cause her the greatest pain, how artfully he can prolong her end before she is finally forced to succumb and descend into the bowels of –

The bowels of –

He looks at Hannibal and the unspoken current runs between them. They share a thought, a look, a firm nod. She would not be welcome in their kingdom, with her silken words and artful schemes. Somehow, he knows, she would find herself in a place of power there, by virtue of her cunning alone. If he didn’t hate her so very much, he might respect her for that.

“Actually,” Will says, shoving another forkful into his mouth and chewing loud and rude around it, “we’re not going to kill you at all.”

He pushes himself from the table, digging weight in with his heels so that it scrapes vicious scuffs into the immaculate hardwood. He walks towards her in even paces, sure to tilt his neck _just so_ to display the tiny marks she has left there that are already impossibly fading.

“But we do have a task for you. One that you would be wise to complete if you do not wish yourself a lifetime of suffering.”

He runs his fingers carelessly over his almost unblemished skin.

“I believe you have established we are quite capable of enacting that.”

Bedelia nods once in understanding but does not speak, and Will kneels next to her, pleased at her submission. He takes her hand in his, as though he were consoling a dear friend, and runs a thumb along her quickening pulse.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Bedelia,” he says soft and even, looking for all the world like the innocent Will Graham that may never have existed.

“You’re going to atone.”

Bedelia’s eyes widen in almost violent shock. Will smiles at the small victory, and continues on.

“When you recover from your tragic and unfortunate accident – and I’m _sure_ you’ll find a way to spin it as such -  you are going to confess your crimes and beg forgiveness. And then –   _then –_  you will become Mother Goddamn Theresa. You’ll give away your worldly possessions, feed the poor and hungry, build orphanages, care for the children and adopt _every last one of them_. You are going to fill your life with so many good deeds that even God himself will believe in you. And when you die, old and worn – haggard and shriveled in your bed surrounded by your loving great-grandchildren – you will go peacefully in your sleep and be met by a choir of angels.”

He raises his eyes to meet her glassy countenance.

“And you will not be my fucking problem.”

He feels Hannibal smile wide and dark behind him. Bedelia does not betray her emotions again, save for a faint tremble that ghosts across her lower lip.

“What… _are_ you?” she asks, her words still smooth and elegant. She swears she can see shifting blackness swirling around him like lover’s fingers, but in an instant it is gone.

Will smirks, with little amusement to carry it. “You couldn’t figure me out when I was alive Bedelia,” he says, and turns to his husband, “Why try now?”

Hannibal cups Will’s cheek in his hand, eyes devouring him with love and pride.

“My beautiful prince,” he purrs, and kisses him deep. They cling to each other in sinuous rolls of hips, uncaring of their guest, snared suddenly by the fierce need to claim, to take, to _have._ Bedelia makes a low noise in her throat at the raw display of affection, a mixture of disgust and curious arousal.

Will tears his mouth free at the sound and looks at her, only now his smirk is pure mischief.

“Your guest bedroom, Bedelia?” he turns his head into Hannibal’s neck and nuzzles him, cat-like but clearly feral. “I believe we have need for it.”

Hannibal’s arm curls tighter around his waist, grabbing at a hip and pulling him towards him, into him.

Bedelia gestures with her chin sharply up and glances to the ceiling.

“Upstairs,” she says coolly, “second on the right.”

“Thanks ever so,” Will says without kindness, and brushes past her. He stops for an instant, crouching low to meet her gaze.

“By the way,” he murmurs, winding a lock of her impeccable blond hair around his fingers, “my husband is an excellent cook.”

He licks his lips and raises himself to full height.

“You still taste disgusting,” he says, dropping the hair limply back to her shoulder and heading upstairs without another word, Hannibal close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring some seriously violent murder husband sex, a new demon, the return of an old friend, and a surprise guest (or two)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The sex gets kinda violent. Like, real violent. THEY ARE DEMONS Y'ALL.

They meet in a clash of mouths and clawing hands, tearing at fabric with little regard for the mess they leave behind. Will bites hard at Hannibal’s jaw, a stark imprint of teeth marks left in his wake. Hannibal clutches at him, lifting him bodily from the floor and tossing him to the bed. Will lands with a growl, quickly righting himself and lifting to his knees, grabbing for purchase at Hannibal to meet his mouth with hunger. He bites again, harder, and the welcome metallic tang of blood washes over his tongue. He pulls back with a snarling grin, lips painted dark as pomegranate seeds.

“I hurt you,” he says, licking the blood from his teeth. He closes his eyes and moans as Hannibal shifts a strong hand behind his neck to tilt back and bruise kisses along his throat.

“How much can I hurt you?” he groans out, gasping as Hannibal drags sharp teeth against his skin.

Dark eyes rimmed in gold and shadow shift back to meet his.

“As much as I can hurt you,” Hannibal replies, and lunges to bite into the flesh of Will’s shoulder. Will cries in a sweet mingle of pleasure and pain as he feels the skin break, the familiar warm sticky trickle of blood running down his sternum.

“I’m bleeding,” he says, “I thought I couldn’t…. Bedelia tried…”

Hannibal pauses from the wet trail he is marking along the wound with his tongue.

“Only I can make you bleed,” he says with pride, and with a hard shove sends Will on his back.

He straddles him, the covers beneath them already smudged in crimson and strewn with scraps of the clothes they have haphazardly torn from each other. Will looks up at him and watches shadows play behind the features of his terrible and beautiful husband. A pair of antlers swing darkly along the wall behind him, and for a moment Will sees Hannibal’s flesh turn black as ink, fingers lengthened into claws.

“You,” he breathes, “it was always you. Was any of it ever in my head?”

Bones and muscle shift as the familiar face of his lover returns to him, but the eyes are liquid black.

“Always me,” he says tenderly, brushing the lightest kiss over Will’s parted lips. Pale fingers alight his cheekbones and Will nuzzles into the touch.

“I should hate you for that,” he murmurs into Hannibal’s palm.

“And do you?” Hannibal asks quietly.

The room falls silent, the sounds of their breathing discordant in the quiet.

Will kisses Hannibal’s palm then pulls at the remnants of his tie to bring their lips together.

“As much as I love you,” he says against his mouth, teasing the words with flicks of his tongue.

“And how much do you love me?” Hannibal teases back, his smile bloodied and gorgeous.

Will pulls Hannibal down further, punctuating his words with rough kisses.

“Enough,” he says, “to promise you eternity.”

He wraps his free arm around Hannibal’s neck and brings their bodies forcefully together.

“Enough to give you my soul,” he growls, arching his hips and grinding fierce.

He stills his mouth against his husband’s so he can meet his gaze.

“Enough to fuck you so hard into this mattress that it sends us straight back to hell.”

Hannibal keens out a sweet helpless moan and licks at Will’s mouth, begging hungrily for more. He rips at what remains of Will’s shirt, sliding flat palms against his chest.

“I do not own your soul, my Will,” he says, lowering his mouth to suck and bite at a peaked nipple.

Will rolls up into the touch, sinking fingers into Hannibal’s hair and running nails along his scalp.

“But I own yours,” he breathes out to the ceiling, feeling Hannibal nod against him.

“What is left of it,” Hannibal says as he moves his kisses steadily down Will’s body, “every inch of it.”

He maps and traces every line of Will’s body with his teeth and tongue, avoiding the achingly hard cock that pleads for his ministrations. Will finds himself writhing against the sheets, moaning in abandon at the pleasure that is being forced out of him and kept just out of reach.

Hannibal shifts lower to part Will’s thighs wide and lowers his mouth to lick a long stripe over the cleft of Will’s ass. He moves to spread him wider, mouth curled to suck against him, but Will stays him with a firm tug at his hair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Will asks with an impertinent brow.

Hannibal rubs his cheek along the inside of Will’s thigh. “Preparing you,” he says simply, and the accompanying image conjures little tendrils of excitement that travel directly to his cock, which bobs in agreement against his stomach.

Will tugs again, harder. “No,” he says, “I thought I was clear.”

Hannibal pushes himself up, the muscles of his back rippling in mingled tension and amusement.

“Oh?” he asks simply.

Will pulls himself free and sits up, swinging both arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and pulling him close, rolling their bodies together until he straddles him. He reaches a hand down and brushes a thumb against the head of Hannibal’s cock.

“I will be fucking you,” he said, curling his hand and stroking slowly, “very, _very_ hard.”

Hannibal chuckles and grips Will’s hips, holding him firmly in place.

“Foolish boy,” he says, “to think that you have not already let the devil inside you.”

Will laughs with shadowed eyes and runs a tongue along his teeth.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, “but this evening the devil will let me inside.”

He pulls one of Hannibal’s hands from his hip and guides it to his own cock, already leaking thick and clear.

“Won’t he?”

He throws his head back with a satisfied groan as Hannibal immediately takes to stroking him with ease, doesn’t see the unabashed surrender in his husband’s eyes when he mutters _yes_ with keen reverence, thighs already open to welcome him in.

Will looks at him through hooded eyes, watches the subservient display and smiles sharp and wicked. He licks at a canine, tasting the leftover tang of iron, thrusting shallowly into the curve of Hannibal’s hand.

“Shall I prepare you, then?” he asks, even as Hannibal begins to guide Will’s cock to his entrance.

Hannibal says nothing, shakes his head and bares his teeth in a snarl, an invitation for Will to claim, to defile as he sees fit.

Will spits twice into his hand, with little grace or courtesy, slicking himself as well as he can, and slips his hands under Hannibal’s thighs. He impales him in one smooth thrust, and the resounding groan that echoes between them threatens to shake apart the surrounding walls.

Downstairs, Bedelia downs the rest of her wine in one bitter gulp.

He fucks Hannibal deep and hard, growling and kissing him with teeth and spit and blood between them. Hannibal arches violently into every thrust, fucking him back just as mercilessly onto Will’s driving cock. They breathe in harsh pants, nails scratching deep welts into whatever skin they can find, each wound a blossoming kiss.

As Hannibal wraps strong thighs around Will’s waist, Will allows himself to be drawn down further, bracing himself on lithe forearms as sweat drips from his brow into Hannibal’s open mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he moans, his words low and treacle-thick.

“Not here,” Hannibal replies, squeezing hard around him to the point of pain.

Will grimaces and ducks his head. “Fuck, Hannibal,” he gasps.

“You wanted to claim me,” Hannibal pants out, hips snapping to meet Will’s, “allow me to claim you in turn.”

The room swirls in shadow around them, the scent of blood and sex hanging thick in the air. Each violent slap of skin to skin, each growl and curse drive them deeper and deeper into a shared madness that intoxicates them blindly.

Darkness sweeps over Will’s eyes and he stills his thrust just long enough to pull Hannibal up to straddle him until he is in his lap. Hannibal moves willingly, still working himself furiously onto Will’s aching cock. He winds himself tight around Will’s body like a snake, kissing sweet and venomous. His cock slides up against Will’s taut belly, dripping and scarlet, and Will cinches their bodies closer to feel the delicious friction.

It is both a fight and a consummation, each of them vying for victory but equally willing to cede in pursuit of the release that dangles at the imminent precipice before them. Will slides his palms across Hannibal’s back, tracing over the deep scratches he has already drawn, rubbing in the salt of their mingled sweat. Hannibal hisses with delight into his ear and drags teeth along his jugular in both promise and warning.

“Would you like to see how far you can hurt me, Will?”

Will laughs darkly as he fucks into him.

“Why do I think,” he says rough and guttural, “that I’m also going to see how far you can hurt me?”

“Because you are,” Hannibal promises into his skin, raw and decadent sin incarnate.

He pulls one of Will’s hands to his slippery cock, raising himself high and sinking down hard. Will takes him in hand and strokes strong and rough, enough to bruise any lesser mortal. His breath stutters out and his thrusts grow staccatoed as the tension rises high in his chest.

“Quick, then,” he rasps, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Not yet,” Hannibal warns, and lower his mouth to drag a wet sucking kiss against Will’s throat.

“You will come with me,” he orders, and tightens himself around Will with a clench that sends stars behind Will’s eyes.

Dizzy with the thrill of the glorious fucking, with his impending orgasm and possible death, Will smiles full and wide and tosses his head back, damp curls slick against his nape.

“Do it,” he begs, the promise of teeth already scraping sharp at him.

“With me,” Hannibal says again, rocking up into Will’s insistent hand.

The band pulled taut within Will snaps and he cries out, piercing and high as Hannibal sinks his teeth into his throat, tearing. Blood sprays from his neck in tandem with the seed pulsing from his cock. It is everything, it is the purest sensation in the universe, and he feels an undulating wave of slick and dark pleasure sweep and bloom through him.

As the light around him dims, he feels Hannibal spatter messily under his hand with a moan as he drags Will’s mouth to his own throat. With his remaining vestiges of strength, he bites, his mouth filling with scarlet and dripping down his throat.

The cling to each other, painted in each other’s release and blood and sweat, the acrid tang of iron and salt clotting the air as they collapse together as one. The sheets beneath them bleed with the glory of their coupling. As the room closes into silence they find each other’s mouths in one last kiss, achingly tender, and the last of breath of each exhales between them.

-x-

Will wakes to a blinding white and blinks in confusion. The light is no longer warm and inviting, instead it bores into him harsh and insistent. As his eyes adjust, he makes out the shapes in front of him. A familiar desk, and behind it a woman. Her arms are crossed, brows knitted in a deep frown of disappointment.

“Consider this a courtesy call,” Beverly says through thin lips.

Will moves to stand, to leave, but finds his wrists bound to the chair he awoke in.

“Bev, what the fuck-”

Beverly looks up at the displeased rumble and shakes her head.

“Don’t even try with this one,” she says resignedly, and the low hum stops.

Will meets her eyes, full of regret and confusion. He almost feels guilty, but the residual buzz of his orgasm is still fuzzing around him. He wants Hannibal.

He needs Hannibal.

“Why am I-” he begins, and Beverly smacks a palm down hard on the table. Her chair skitters out behind her with an unpleasant screech as she stands.

“Are you _goddamn_ kidding me?” she yells, and points a finger high to stop the incoming reprimand at her cursing. “ _Not right now sir_!” she says, and slaps her hand down again.

“You were so close, Will! So. Fucking. Close!”

Will shakes his head, trying to calm himself for the sake of old friendship, but the rage within him is swelling fast.

“I didn’t want to be here,” he says softly, and Beverly barks out a harsh laugh.

“So you chose _him_?” she cries, as angered as she is baffled. She leans down low and cups a hand under his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.

“Do you remember what he did to me?” she says quiet and low, and shoves his face aside in disgust.

“I watched you weep for me.” Her voice is shaking now and he can hear tremulous tears being fought down.

“And now you’re what? The – the lapdog of Lucifer?”

“Keeper of the Hellhounds,” Will corrects, “and Lucifer was the one that came before. It’s a Dread Pirate Roberts sort of thing.”

He cracks a small smile, but it goes unreciprocated. Beverly looks at him for a drawn out moment, then spits in his face.

“Fuck you,” she says small and harsh. There is venom in it, but behind that a deep chasm of hurt.

“I told you he couldn’t keep you there,” she whispers. A single tear slips out and she blinks wetly.

Will’s rage deflates in an instant and he swallows hard.

“I know,” he replies, “I chose to stay.” He turns his eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry Beverly.”

She perches to sit at the desk in front of him, looking down her nose thoughtfully.

“I believe you,” she sniffs, “but you really fucked up.”

“I politely disagree,” Will begins, but the slap that cracks hard across his face silences him.

Unable to rub away the sting, he tongues at the inside of his mouth and hums a note of displeasure.

“I suppose I deserved that.” He meets Beverly’s eyes then, lets the dark bubble back up, lets her _see_.

“But you would be wise not to do that again.”

A soft breath escapes her lips, and her gaze widens in genuine shock. She sees the irises rimmed in red, the shadow of great horns that pass over his head.

“What did he do to you?” she breathes.

“Nothing I didn’t ask for,” Will says honestly.

He sighs heavy and forlorn.

“Can I go now?” he asks.

He finds himself suddenly unbound and moves to stand.

“There’s nothing to keep you here.” Beverly’s voice is hollow now. “The only thing binding you was the last tether of your humanity.”

She raises a hand in parting.

“Goodbye, Will.”

Light fades around him and her voice grows to an echo. She says something but the words are too muffled to discern.

“What did you say?” Will calls out.

She repeats the words again and Will stiffens in alarm.

“Wait!” he yells, reaching out an arm, but she is gone, the light leeched from the room. The floor gives out from beneath him and he lets himself fall, knowing that where he will land is safe and welcoming, despite the inferno that surrounds it.

He lands, surprisingly, with a thud against slate-grey sand. It rubs coarse against his cheek, the smell of decay hanging thick about him. He raises his head to see a vast inky ocean, its waters lapping at the shore he finds himself cast upon. There is a curious lack of sound, and he looks up to see a great void instead of sky, a rebounding nothingness that folds in and around itself.

He pulls himself up to sit, his body whole but echoing with the sensation of the bruises that should be there.

“Hello?” he calls out, his voice landing as far as his feet without air to carry it.

Beyond him, the ocean rolls and coils on itself, a writhing mass of wet black, almost beastly in its sinuous rolls. Slowly, the water rises and wraps around itself, tentacles splaying out from the shadowy curves, forming solid and monstrous.

A great wave unfurls and forms the shape of a stern face, determinedly inhuman with deep silver eyes. The face looks at Will, a barely visible mouth turned down in disapproval.

“Who are you?” it rumbles.

Will feels the spray of salt and death at his face and he stumbles backward.

“I’m Will Graham,” he calls back, then shakes his head at his foolishness. He squares his shoulders and meets the face with an imperious glare.

“Prince of Tartarus,” he declares.

The mouth spills up into a sort-of smile, and Will finds himself met with a deep belly-rich laugh, accompanied by a great gust of black water that almost knocks him from his feet.

“So Hades has found his Persephone,” the voice says, and the tentacles knit themselves tighter together as the shape moves closer to land.

Glinting steel eyes run up and down Will’s body, the expression unreadable.

“Hmm,” it considers, “I can’t say that I approve.”

A tentacle pulls up and waves a noncommittal gesture before flopping back down.

“But that’s none of my business.”

Its tone is lighter now, still cautious but seemingly aware of its outranking.

“I am the Gatekeeper,” says the mouth, “I determine admittance to the realms beyond for our kind.”

Two tentacles fold together in a parody of crossed arms. “You certainly don’t look like our kind.”

“Give me time,” Will grimaces, wringing the wet from himself, “and don’t call me-”

A great thundering splash cuts him off, and the voice raises to a thundering roar.

“Do not dare to give me instructions, impudent upstart. I have millennia in scores both behind and before me. I would see you-”

“Leviathan,” Hannibal’s voice reverberates around them, terrifyingly calm, “let my husband in.”

A disgruntled sigh sends a final crash of water over Will. “Yes, sire,” Leviathan pouts, and raises a tentacle before sending it violently down into the sand next to Will. Beside him a great cavern opens, within it a bead of light that beckons warmth and safety.

“After you,” Leviathan says, and gives Will a none-too-gentle shove.

“And congratulations!” the voice calls out behind him, utterly lacking in sincerity.

The fall is short, and Will sees the floor coming towards him in time to brace himself and land with a modicum of grace. He stumbles to gain his footing as lips brush against his temple.

“I feared I had lost you,” Hannibal breathes against him, and Will sinks into him, arms wrapping fierce about his shoulders.

“Never,” Will says, kissing a desperate line from his jaw to welcoming lips.

“You’re my husband,” he vows into his mouth, and plunges into a deep and savage kiss. They coil tightly in a shivering mass of need and grateful reunion, hands slipping and grabbing for purchase as tongues sweep together in tandem. Will keens a high and happy sound as wholeness floods him, their kisses shifting languid and lazy, a slow burn of devotion and promise.

“Gross,” comes a girl’s voice from behind him.

They part their embrace but not their distance. Hannibal fixes his eyes over Will’s shoulder.

“I told you to wait until I called you,” he berates fondly.

“Whatever, _Dad_ ,” the girl sasses, but there is no venom in her tone.

Will turns to the source of the voice. Even though he already knows the sound, it is no less shock to see her in the flesh. She is smiling. He’s never seen her look so at peace.

She has no scars.

“Abigail,” he breathes, and pulls her into his arms.

She squeezes him fondly, a lightness about her that had never existed in life.

“Hey, Will,” she says almost shyly.

He looks at her in wonder, his gaze shifting between her and Hannibal.

“Can you forgive me now that the teacup has reformed itself?” Hannibal asks, and Will swears he can see tears glistening in his fathomless eyes.

“I forgave you before I wanted to,” Will admits, “but this…”

He draws Abigail into him again, burying his nose in her hair and choking on a sob of his own.

Hannibal wraps gentle arms around them both, chin resting atop Will’s head.

“We are a family now.”

The words stir a memory in Will, and he pulls himself free to grab at Hannibal’s elbow.

“Hannibal.” He exhales sharply. “I have a message. From Beverly.”

Hannibal quirks his lips in a humorless grin.

“Laced with expletives I assume.”

“No,” Will says, tension already rippling through his shoulders, “She delivered it, but it came from – it came from Higher Up.”

Hannibal’s entire body stills and the small smile dissolves itself. “Oh?”

“They have Mischa.”

Will looks at his husband with determined eyes.

“And I’m going to find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break between chapters! I have oodles of time coming up with Thanksgiving, and the plot bunnies have bitten something fierce. Oh, the places we'll go...


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